


Bond Status

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU: Soulmarks, Child Abuse, Homophobic Language, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, Soulmarks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4278576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an AU world in which people learn their soulmate's first name when it appears on their skin, what happens when Phil's mark is Clint's name, but Clint appears to be Unmarked?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bond Status

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** There is a description of child abuse taking place in real time. It is not a vague description of past events, but it isn't too terribly graphic, in my opinion. If you are at all unsure, skip the italicized portion at the beginning of the fic (the italics at the end are fine). It _is_ vaguely described later, but that is pretty mild. If you are at all unsure, please message me, or read the end notes for further details. The homophobic language is also in that section, with one additional term in the final italicized section at the end. 
> 
> Originally inspired by a tumblr post made by [the-apple-pie-was-worth-it](http://the-apple-pie-was-worth-it.tumblr.com/) that has since been deleted. *sad face* It asked the question: What would Clint's dad do if his child's soulmark was clearly a guy's name?
> 
> I started this so long ago guys, so I'm sorry if it's a bit choppy. It is mostly compliant with all of the MCU, it just ignores certain rural events of AoU as well as certain people who live in Portland.
> 
> As usual, it is unbeta-ed. All mistakes are my own. Feel free to politely point them out. :)

_Clint is four when a name appears on his back, just over his left shoulder blade. Barney swears, using the best of his dad’s drunken words he’s not supposed to repeat, because that means whoever Clint’s bonded to is probably in their teens, in the middle of puberty. Dad isn’t going to like the idea of Clint being some woman’s boytoy._

_But then he turns Clint around to get a better look, and all his swearing just stops. The words die in his throat, because this is so much worse than having some damn old lady preying on Clint. This is . . ._

_This is some old_ man _preying on Clint. And there is no way Dad will ever let that happen. Even if the guy is a freak going through early puberty or something, he’s still a_ guy _, and that means he’s a fag, and Clint’s a fag, and there is no universe in which that is okay._

_Barney does his best to keep it hidden. He volunteers to watch Clint in the bath, he makes sure Clint is dressed in the mornings before Barney leaves for school. He doesn’t let Clint wear that old hand-me-down shirt with the hole in the armpit, because what if it rips more and the name—Phillip. It’s Phillip and for a few days Barney keeps checking to see if it will fill in to Phillippa or something, but it doesn’t—becomes visible?_

_They make it about a month. But then Clint gets in between their parents, clinging to Mom’s leg until he’s thrown across the room and Dad zeroes in on him instead. He gets a thrashing (which, frankly, he kind of deserves for not hiding, for crying. For not just_ getting out of the way _) and after Dad’s stormed off to the bedroom with a bottle of that turkey shit, Mom gets it together enough to take Clint’s shirt off and see if he’s bleeding. It’s a bitch if they wind up having to go to the hospital, Barney knows, with the doctors and questions and even the police that one time._

 _So she sees it and she gasps and she asks Barney if he’d seen it, and Barney mumbles something which just makes her yell at him to speak up, which makes Dad come back out, and then_ he _sees it, and suddenly Dad has the gas lighter in his hand and Clint is screaming on the kitchen table and Barney has to run. He has to run and puke in the bushes outside, hoping to God no one sees him._

_He never tells Clint what the name was. Better to be an Unbonded straight guy than a fag._

 

_________

 

Phil opens the file in his hands one more time. _Clinton Francis Barton_. He takes another look at the pictures attached: a mug shot taken just a few hours ago paired with a singular grainy surveillance shot of a man on a roof with a bow in hand. SHIELD has been after this guy, hard, for a few years, though until now they hadn’t even had his name.

 _Hawkeye_ is the name stamped on the folder, the name used in SHIELD’s databases. The only name they’d had any intel on. Phil had wondered why Fury had suddenly switched the endgame from “lock him up” to “bring him in,” but when he’d received the updated information, he’d understood. And it had explained why Nick had sent Phil out to Bratislava when he’s honestly needed more in Caracas.

 _Clinton_.

Phil rubs his hand over his chest, just once. He’d only ever met one other Clinton in his life, and the guy had been a total prick, a local police officer Phil had had to work around on an assignment in Tulsa. Thank fuck the asshole’s soulmark had been visible over his wrist and hand, because Phil did not want to entertain the notion of a life with _that_ for even a moment.

But this Clinton . . . This could be it. He looks good, certainly—if a bit murderous—and he’s got the kind of talents that appeal to Phil, when put to use for the greater good. His age is about right. Phil had waited a long time to get his mark, the sleek, dark script finally appearing over his heart at the age of twenty-five. At first he’d despaired of having someone so much younger, but then he’d just rejoiced in having a name at all. He’d been starting to really believe he’d be one of the relatively few who were classified as Unmarked.

But the years had passed and he hadn’t found any Clintons. Or, at least, not any he wanted to bond with. There was no mention of a soulmark on this Clinton, but given the reports of the guy’s attitude and dangerous disposition, Phil could understand why they hadn’t done a full strip down.

Phil eyes the man currently sitting in an interrogation room, hands chained to the table and feet chained to his chair. He’s got his head up, his spine straight, and a thunderous expression. He is not happy, and he is not defeated; his whole posture screams “Fuck you” to anyone who might think otherwise. Phil takes a breath, centering himself, and enters the room, official bland SHIELD agent expression in place.

“Mr. Barton, I’m Agent Phillip Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division,” he says, tossing the file onto the table out of Clinton’s reach. He waits, standing, for a reaction. There’s a reason he used his full name, rather than his preferred first name of “Phil.”

Clinton looks him over with a sneer. “Good for you,” he says, and that’s the only reaction Phil gets. There’s no recognition, no surprise at the name. “D’you want a fucking medal?”

Phil keeps his disappointment off his face, but he can feel it settling in his chest like a stone. Still, there’s always the chance Barton is just that good. It’s a slim chance, given Phil’s expertise at reading people, but he’s been fooled before. He pulls out the chair across from the prisoner, and settles into it, flipping open the file and pretending to peruse it as if he hasn’t already memorized all the information. “It says here you took out twelve men in under two minutes. And yet only nine arrows were found at the scene.”

Barton smirks. “I got skills, man.”

“So I hear.” Phil says nothing more, letting the silence hang.

Barton scowls at him, but doesn’t try to fill the void. He doesn’t even fidget in his seat. He is calm, he is collected, and he is prepared to wait Phil out. That’s a good sign, as far as recruitment goes.

“Let’s discuss your future,” Phil says eventually, and allows himself a small smile when Barton’s frown deepens.

 

_________

 

Barton joins SHIELD. He hadn’t really had much of a choice and, according to the intake agent, he knows it, and he makes sure everybody else knows it too. He’s all attitude, apparently, balking at the interview process, the medical check, the classes they’ll make him take at the Academy. He claims to be better than any SHIELD agent they throw at him, and doesn’t like the response he gets of, “Then how’d you get caught?”

Phil keeps an active interest in him, somewhat amused, and when the medical file is complete, he gets his hands on it as soon as he can while still maintaining a facade of professional indifference. He opens the file and his eyes go straight to the information he’s looking for, right under name and badge number, next to gender.

 _Bond status: Unbonded; Unmarked_.

Phil releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and the stone he’d first felt at Barton’s recruitment settles in to stay. Unmarked. Either Barton is destined for someone who hasn’t matured yet, or he’s one of what the older generation call “the unlucky ones.” That’s bullshit, of course; happiness doesn’t require a bond, and a bond doesn’t ensure happiness.

Still, Phil has always hoped for a bond himself, and if Barton is, in fact, the right Clinton, then Phil too will be doomed to that “unlucky” status, pitied by so many. Only instead of being Unmarked, instead of being someone for whom a bond just isn’t right, he’ll be _Unrequited_ , which is considered even more pitiable by general society. It will mean there is a perfect match for him, someone with whom he could have bonded, if only life weren’t such a cruel and fickle bitch.

The best he can hope for, at this juncture, is Unfound, which is where he already is, and he certainly isn’t getting any younger. He’s pushing forty, and every year he spends without meeting his intended wears on him just that little bit more.

Since the file is in his hands anyway, Phil spends some time going over it, learning more about SHIELD’s latest recruit. His psych eval declares him fit for duty, but recommends he make regular appointments with their department. His physical proclaims him to be in top shape, and his eye exam puts his visual acuity somewhere off the charts. Deeper physical exams point to a troubled past, with scars on his skin and bones that have mended over time. Some are fairly recent, but it’s noted that some show signs of being decades old, injured and healed when Barton was just a boy.

There are photographs, just as there are for every agent. Phil’s smile is grim as he muses over what Barton must have said to that process, but scars are great identifiers, should the worst happen. SHIELD keeps those records up to date with a fastidiousness that speaks to a long and dangerous history. More than one body has been identified and returned home based on those records alone.

Barton has had several broken bones in his life: both legs, one elbow, several fingers, and multiple ribs. There are long, jagged scars from knives or glass, a couple of healed bullet wounds, and several obvious cigarette burns. There’s also a more prominent burn, long healed but permanently scarred, over his left shoulder blade. It’s much larger than the cigarette burns, with uneven edges, which probably means it wasn’t one touch to something very hot, but multiple passes under a flame. It’s stretched; Barton was nowhere near the size he is now when he got the burn, and Phil’s stomach turns over at the implication.

He sets the file aside, unwilling to get more involved. He’s obviously not the right Clinton, not _Phil’s_ Clinton, and even if he is, that would simply mean that Phil needs to maintain even more distance between them, for his own emotional protection.

He might be Unrequited, dammit, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to fall in love with someone he can’t have. He isn’t going to fall into that trap.

 

_________

 

Years later, Phil has fallen into exactly that trap. Nick had done his best to keep them on separate assignments, but they’d both risen through the ranks at the same rate of speed, just in different areas. Phil did a stint as handler to _unique_ specialists (for lack of a better term) just as Barton started earning himself that very title. His rare skill set, coupled with his attitude, made him difficult to place, and while it was clear that the archer was actually trying to do his job well, his attitude and refusal to follow orders when he thought he knew better was grating to many qualified supervising agents. Eventually Phil had been one of the last ones left who _hadn’t_ worked with him, and Nick had dumped the file on Phil’s desk with an unspoken apology and a salary bump.

They’d seen a lot of shit together, had gotten into a lot of scrapes, and Phil had stupidly—grudgingly—started to like the younger man. When Clint had gone off the grid during the whole Black Widow incident, Phil’s heart rate had spiked, and when he’d nearly died in Phil’s arms a year later in Kyrgyzstan, Phil had barely been able to keep it together, his own heart breaking with every slowed pump of Clint’s. He’d come back from that mission with the knowledge that he needed to request a new position within the agency, and the certainty that he was, in fact, no longer Unfound. He was solidly in Unrequited territory.

He’d filed both requisite forms the day they let Barton out of Medical. He’d taken them to Nick for approval, bypassing the chain of command; he absolutely had not wanted anyone to make the connection between asking not to be Barton’s handler anymore, and his change in Bond status. He was Agent Phil Coulson, he did not need anyone’s pity.

Nick had signed them both, and had offered another apology. Phil had shrugged, because it didn’t really matter. Whether he’d worked with Barton or not, he’d still be Unrequited. At least now he knew, and could stop looking—and hoping—for someone who didn’t exist.

So Phil had continued to move up in the agency, often put in charge of larger operations and missions, rather than individual people. He still works with Barton from time to time, but on a less personal, one-on-one basis. It still hurts, every damn time.

He’s flipping through the limited television channels Pegasus base gets (and cursing the lack of variety and idly wondering if he’s been wrong all these years and his Clinton is actually Clinton Kelly, who might be nothing like what Phil wants but at least knows how to wear a suit) when a call comes through from his _real_ Clint.

“Sir, we have a situation. The cube’s throwing off all kinds of readings; some kind of energy surge.”

Phil checks his email, and doesn’t see anything new. “I’ve gotten no notifications from the science team.”

“Selvig’s more excited than concerned.”

“And you think there’s reason for concern,” Phil says, already holstering his weapon and moving out the door. If Barton sees something, then there’s something to be seen.

“An alien energy source that powers itself on? Yeah, I think there’s reason for concern.”

Phil has to agree. He hangs up and books it to the lab, where he does not, in fact, get reassured by Dr. Selvig. There’s another surge while he’s there, and Selvig can’t seem to stop the sudden climb in readings, so Phil calls it. He sounds the evacuation alarm, even though he knows Fury won’t be pleased, especially in regards to Phase Two, but there are kids on the complex, and he won’t risk their lives.

From there, everything goes to shit.

He hears the call to Hill over the radio, that Barton’s been turned, and he barely has time to process that before things start exploding. In the end, Clint being magically brainwashed and controlled isn’t something Phil can live with, so he doesn’t mind so much when he doesn’t have to. If he’d bought Natasha even a little bit of time, if he’d helped in even the smallest of ways to get his Clinton back, it’s worth it.

Then he wakes up.

He wakes up and Nick tells him everything’s okay, every _one_ is okay, but that his existence is top secret. Phil is okay with that. He’ll miss some people, sure, but he doubts they’ll miss him. Certainly not in a way they won’t get over. Hell, by the time he’s back from Tahiti, they’ve probably all but forgotten him. And if Clint doesn’t know Phil’s alive, if Phil isn’t allowed to see him, well, maybe that will make it a little easier to deal with the ache he still carries in his chest. Funny how being stabbed through the heart with a spear doesn’t seem to compare to the slow, quiet pain he’s been feeling for years.

 

_________

 

Tahiti, it turns out, had never been real. Instead there had been T.A.H.I.T.I., complete with hypergraphia, alien instincts, and mental instability. Throw in HYDRA, Inhumans, and fucking Ultron (complete with flying city), and Phil can’t be a secret anymore. Stark is looking into SHIELD 2.0, and he’s going to find out eventually. FRIDAY may not be as good as JARVIS ever was, but she’s new, and SHIELD doesn’t have the same defenses against her programming as they did with her predecessor (nor does Phil have the same understanding and accord with her as he had always had with JARVIS). Anyway, being apart from Clint hadn’t made Phil’s life easier in the slightest; he’d still missed him. Unrequited is Unrequited, no matter the distance.

So, it’s time.

There’s anger, of course. Confusion. Feelings of betrayal. Oddly enough, it’s Stark and Rogers who seem the most upset. Thor is angry, but grateful Phil is alive. Natasha seems to switch gears into acceptance easily enough, well aware of how the spy game works. Clint’s reaction, by all rights, _should_ be the same, but it’s not. He won’t stop staring at Phil, his throat working repeatedly and his mouth sometimes opening suddenly, only to close again without voicing a word.

“I don’t think you realize what you left behind,” Rogers says, and his voice is hard, harder than Phil had expected, given that they’d barely known each other and that Captain America had seemed to give the new SHIELD his stamp of approval in (over?) Sokovia. 

Phil’s ire flashes, because he knows _exactly_ what he’d left behind, and he knows why he’d made the decision to stay gone. Part of his temper is fueled by guilt, because he knows he’s hurt people, knows his friends had grieved. But he’d needed to go, both for personal and professional reasons. Really, it was a good thing he had, or the Ultron incident might have resulted in a lot more fatalities.

He holds on to that and forcefully does not look at Clint as he says, “I left friends behind, Captain. I know that. I can only apologize again for the circumstances of my resurrection, and beg forgiveness. But in being gone, I was also in place to save SHIELD, and attempt to bring her back to what she was originally intended to be.” He has no compunction in throwing the captain’s words back at him. Hearing them over the comm recordings had filled him with giddy excitement at having pleased his hero, but it had also validated his choices, had made the experiences of the past few years worth it.

“That being said,” Phil continues, after drawing a breath, “SHIELD is not up to full strength. We still lack personnel, among other things. I know I would love to have three top former agents back among our ranks.” He looks at Clint, then Natasha, holding each of their gazes in turn. “I know you’re Avengers now—” It was a fact of which he could not be more proud. “—and of course you’d be available for all the necessary training and any calls to action. But SHIELD could still use you too, and I know, despite all that happened, all the traitors and lies, it was, at one point, a home.” He makes this point while looking straight at Clint, who finally blinks.

It’s Rogers who speaks, however. “Not for me.” He still sounds angry, but it’s more resigned now than before. “I tried, for several reasons, but it was never what I’d hoped it would be. Besides, I have another project to focus on. Sorry, Coulson.”

Phil nods, because he knows all about the hunt for Barnes. Clint is still quiet, so Phil looks to Natasha, who offers him a wry smile.

“I think I’ve had my fill of secret government agencies.” She says nothing more, but Phil understands enough with those few words. He nods his acceptance and looks to Clint, who looks back at him, then at Natasha, then back to him again.

“Jesus, it’s like Sophie’s fucking Choice,” Stark mutters, and Thor admonishes him quietly with, “I don’t know who Sophie is or what decision she faced, but hush.”

“It’s okay, Clint,” Natasha says before pressing close and whispering something in her partner’s ear. Clint shakes his head, looking a bit lost, and she says something else, again so low no one else has a hope of hearing it. Then she’s leaving the room, pulling Stark along behind her, Thor and Rogers on their heels.

Phil sees the door close behind them, then focuses on Clint, who is still staring at him. It’s unnerving, but Phil doesn’t fidget. Maintaining a calm façade around Clint Barton is something he’s had years to practice. “Barton?”

This time, when Clint opens his mouth, words come out, slowly at first, then gaining an almost manic speed. “I . . . I need to ask. It’s impolite and I’m not supposed to and I could have looked at the leaked files—but then again if you’ve been alive this whole time, those files on you probably aren’t even accurate, so who knows what your records even say—”

“Barton,” Phil interrupts, because he’s never heard the man ramble like that before. It’s disconcerting, to say the least. “Just ask.”

Clint sucks in a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “Are you Bonded?”

The question takes Phil by surprise. It’s his turn to stare, but he only allows himself a moment of shock. He can’t afford more than that, because he has to gather himself enough to rein in the sudden surge of hope and confusion flooding his every cell. He resettles his weight on his feet and puts his hands behind his back, projecting calm authority. “No.”

His efforts are in vain, however, as Clint is abruptly, unexpectedly _there_ , kissing him, causing Phil to rock back and bring his hands around to grab Clint’s arms desperately. It’s nothing like he’d imagined, in those moments he’d allowed himself the fantasy. He can feel Clint shaking a little, for one—in Phil’s daydreams, there’d been no uncertainty, thanks to matching soulmarks. Also, Clint tastes like curry, not coffee or pizza. Moreover, it’s _better_. It’s better than Phil could ever have dreamt.

He lets his fingers dig in to Clint’s glorious biceps, tilts his head just a touch more, and parts his lips to deepen the kiss. Maybe he shouldn’t, maybe he’s opening himself to a world of hurt, but why _can’t_ he have this? He may not be Clint’s soulmate, but Clint is his, and he’ll fucking take what he can get, thank you very much.

Clint practically growls deep in his throat and he moves; Phil is pressed against the wall, held there by a body and hands that are no longer trembling. An answering noise escapes Phil, and he hopes it didn’t sound as desperate to Clint as it did to his own ears. He’ll likely never know, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because whatever Clint’s heard, it’s spurring him on. His hands are roaming, his whole torso is heavy against Phil’s, and his hardening cock is growing alongside Phil’s own.

Phil doesn’t hesitate; he grabs Clint’s shirt and tugs it off, and when Clint’s hands come back down he gets to work on the buttons of Phil’s shirt as Phil shucks his suit jacket. Once the jacket is off, Phil trails impatient kisses along Clint’s jaw until Clint complies and lifts his head to kiss Phil properly again. It makes Clint fumble the last couple buttons, and he ends up ripping one off as he yanks the shirt off Phil’s shoulders. They’ve forgotten the cuffs, though, and Phil ends up with his hands caught slightly behind his back, making him laugh.

Clint doesn’t join in. He’s staring again, and not in a good way. He’s stepped back, hands at his sides, and his eyes are on Phil’s scar. Phil doesn’t know what to say. He knows it’s ugly, and jarring. It’s probably a reminder of all the lies, of the fact that Phil had stayed away. He tries to step away, only remembering at the last second that there’s a wall behind him. Instead, he hitches his shirt back up. He should have known it wouldn’t happen. He should have fucking known better.

But Clint reaches out, stopping the fabric from covering Phil’s heart. His fingertips touch skin, and Phil can’t contain the shudder that runs up his spine at the feel. His scar is still so sensitive, the dead skin pulling at his nerves. He looks down, and is surprised to see Clint tracing not the scar itself, but what’s left of the soulmark peeking around it. It’s illegible, Phil knows, just the barest hints of the top of the C and the l, the foot of the second n, and a random patch of the t and the o. It’s distorted, stretched and puckered, even where it’s not covered, and none of it is identifiable as any individual letter.

“You do belong to someone,” Clint rasps, the pad of one finger running over the end of the last letter obsessively.

“No,” Phil says, his own voice hoarse, because he _doesn’t_. He doesn’t belong to anyone. He is no one’s soulmate. “I . . . It’s Unrequited,” he admits. Clint startles, his gaze snapping up from Phil’s chest to his eyes, and Phil doesn’t know what else to say, how much he should tell him. He has no idea if Clint means this to be a _thing_ , or if he’s just trying to get some weird authority figure lust out of his system before rejoining SHIELD. “I’ve come to terms with it,” is what Phil settles on. “I’ve known for years that it was never going to happen.”

“But . . .” Clint doesn’t seem to have anything else to add to that, though, so Phil takes a chance and steps forward, touching Clint’s arm gently.

“My soulmate doesn’t want me, Clint. But right now, you do. And I’ve wanted you pretty much since I met you.” None of that is untrue, though it certainly isn’t fully honest. Phil just can’t make himself clarify. Not when his chance with Clint is on the line. Even if it is only for one brief moment. “ _Do_ you still want me?”

“Always.”

The answer knocks the breath from Phil just as thoroughly as the kiss that follows. He doesn’t have time to think about it though, because suddenly they’re scrambling again, fingers pulling at belts and buttons and zippers, teeth nipping and catching, tongues dancing and tasting while breath mingles, carrying their sighs. The cuffs come undone finally and Phil lets the shirt drop before wrapping his arms around Clint’s shoulders, one hand in Clint’s hair. Clint shifts, putting his thigh between Phil’s legs and pressing up, and Phil looses a sharp cry into their kiss.

He feels Clint’s grin and answers it with one of his own, and then they’re moving together, a sensual dance to a building crescendo. There’s no space between them, it’s all heat and friction and sweat, and it doesn’t take long at all for Phil to crest and break, spilling himself between their bodies with a low moan. He takes just a moment to breathe, to clear his head, then he’s spinning them around, pressing Clint to the wall and kissing him thoroughly. He reaches between them and uses the mess he made as lubricant, stroking Clint with a firm, steady grip.

It takes less than a minute before Clint is groaning into Phil’s mouth and spilling into his hand. He tilts his head back to breathe, and Phil allows himself to kiss his way down Clint’s throat before resting his head on Clint’s shoulder.

“Well,” Clint says, and Phil smiles into warm skin.

“Well,” he echoes.

 

_________

 

Clint rejoins SHIELD. Phil keeps him close when he can, as part of his personal crew. They sleep together, they eat together. They share coffee. They maintain professionalism when not alone, but behind closed doors they kiss and fuck and cuddle. They exchange _I love you_ s. Phil has never been happier.

But.

He can feel it. The uncertainty gnawing at Clint. The belief that he is not Phil’s soulmate. That someday someone will show up with a prior, unbreakable claim on Phil, and he’ll have to step back and walk away.

“It’s yours,” Phil finally admits one night. They’re lying in their small bed on the hellicarrier, naked, Clint’s hand resting over Phil’s heart and his fingers very deliberately not tracing the remnants of his own name.

“What’s mine?” Clint’s voice is sex-rough and sleepy, and Phil closes his eyes for a moment, hoping he’s not about to lose it all.

“The name you’re trying not to think about. It’s yours.” He feels Clint still against him and covers Clint’s hand with his own. “It showed up when I was twenty-five. _Clinton_.”

Clint doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, for what seems like forever. Finally he takes a breath, extracts his hand from underneath Phil’s, and pushes himself up to hover over and look down at Phil, who forces himself to meet Clint’s eyes. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Phil can’t tell if Clint’s angry or hurt, but it’s probably both. He knows he has no good excuse for letting it go on this long. He shrugs helplessly. “You’re my soulmate. I don’t care if I’m not yours. You love me. Right here, right now, you love me, and I’ll take every minute I can get with you.”

“Phil.”

He lets his gaze slide away, terrified of what’s to come.

“You should have said.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You _dumbass_.” The word is hurled not with anger or sadness, but affection, and Phil looks back up, surprised. Clint looks sad, and he’s staring at Phil with worry in his eyes. “All this time, you’ve been assuming you’re not my soulmate?”

“I— I’m not,” he stutters. “You’re Unmarked.”

“I’m not Unmarked,” Clint says gently. “I have no idea what my mark used to say—which, I admit, isn’t much better—but I am not Unmarked.”

Phil moves, angling himself out from under Clint and sitting up. Clint lets him, settling in to face him with a sad smile. Phil’s hand drifts over Clint’s shoulder, rubbing against the ancient burn above his shoulder blade. “This?”

“Yeah. Showed up when I was four. Something about it pissed Dad off good and proper. Barney never would tell me what it said.”

“Four,” Phil whispers.

Clint nods. “Timing would be about right. But I won’t ever be able to tell you for sure. When I finally wised up to the whole bi thing, I kind of figured it was a guy’s name, but I can’t even be certain about that. It could have been anything. If it’d been a traditional Jewish name, he’d have been mad. Or what he considered to be a stereotypical ‘black name.’ Guy was a hundred different kinds of racist asshole. Hell, it might have just been the age thing. Point is, we’ll never know. Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” Phil smiles, moving his hand to stroke through the short hairs at the base of Clint’s skull. “I’ve always just been happy to have you. I could see you were worried though. About my mark.”

Clint puts his hand back over Phil’s heart. “I was. I didn’t want some dickwad finally figuring out what could have been his.”

“You’re the only dickwad I belong to.”

“Well then, doesn’t that work out just dandy. Anyway, I never liked not having a choice in the matter. Look where being soulmates got my parents. If I found out tomorrow that my mark had said Bob—or Grace or John or Marcia—I wouldn’t care. I love you, Phil. _You_. I choose to love you. It doesn’t matter what my mark said.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Phil confirms with a whisper. He kisses Clint softly, lingering for a bit before lying back down and encouraging Clint to follow.

 

_________

 

_Clint,_

_Hey, baby bro. I’ve been seeing on TV you’re doing all right for yourself. That’s good. I fucked up. I know I fucked up. I wasn’t a good brother to you. I let my own teenage shit get in the way, and I betrayed you. I’m sorry. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I am sorry. You don’t have to accept my apology, but I need to offer it._

_I’m not up for parole or anything. Not for another ten years, minimum. This isn’t a bid for early release. I’m just trying to do better. I never did do right by you, even when I thought I was, and I deserve to be here, and you deserve to be exactly where you are. Stark Tower, man. Glad one of us made it good._

_One of the ~~pole riders~~ other inmates got a care package with some tabloid magazines and fuck all if your face isn’t right up there on the cover, you smug bastard. The headline says there’s rumors of a boyfriend, so, okay, I guess you figured out on your own that your soulmark was a guy. I should’ve told you when we were kids. I had a lot of Dad’s hate, Clint, and that’s not an excuse, but it took me a long time to unlearn that shit. I’m still working on it. My point is—I still remember it. The name. But if you’re happy with your guy I don’t want to fuck things up for you, and I know you might not want to write me back. I wouldn’t blame you._

_So, here’s what I figure. I’m gonna write it down on the other side of this page. I’m gonna cover it with another piece of paper in the envelope so you don’t accidentally see it. If you want to know, turn this over and read it. If you don’t, throw this away or burn it or something. I don’t have much to give you, man, but I have this._

_Keep doing good, baby bro. I’m proud of you._

_Barney_

_Phillip_

__

**Author's Note:**

> Clinton Kelly is the co-host of TLC's What Not To Wear, a fashion advice show.
> 
>  **Detailed Warning:** Clint is four when Phil's name appears over his shoulder blade. Clint's dad, being a violent alcoholic and a homophobe, burns it off with one of those gas lighters. You don't see it happen, but Clint does scream.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Phillip](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7501548) by [DragonWolfe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonWolfe/pseuds/DragonWolfe)




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